


The Smoke that Swirls

by mvllorylvngdon



Category: American Horror Story
Genre: F/M, Hades and Persephone hints hidden in there, I also threw a little of Red Riding Hood into the mix, I'm going to hell now how lovely, Like... a mess, Plotless but... with a plot? Wow?, Smut, That's it, The writer takes religion and uses as erotica nice, alternative universe, but that's obvious, priest!Michael, this is a mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-19
Updated: 2019-02-19
Packaged: 2019-10-31 12:36:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17849609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mvllorylvngdon/pseuds/mvllorylvngdon
Summary: “I believe wisdom is one of the gifts bestowed upon you by your God, wouldn’t logic qualify as something that relies upon that wisdom?” Father Langdon clicked his tongue twice, the expression on his face and the way he circled around her nearly felt as though he was fighting the urge of nagging himself, like he had stepped over the boundary “Of course, to encourage certain behavior, to even suggest you should not obey is what does not quite qualify as the word and deed of the Lord. Not much of a priest behavior, is it?”“At this point I don’t really believe you’re the usual priest, to be honest.”He smiled in response, the red above him more vibrant than ever “Good.”





	The Smoke that Swirls

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost, I know, I have an actual fic to tend to. And a Tumblr RPG to put together. But listen: my Discord friends and I were talking and I most admit Priest!Michael is my fucking weakness, probably my Bible Thumper self is showing herself to be a messy one, as per usual. I couldn't help myself, we started exchanging headcanons and these headcanons escalated and (boom) it was filth. This is my first full-blown (no pun intended) smut fic for Millory. Since the one I tried to write on December died screaming. So here you go, you nasties. 
> 
> Also, this is kind of a consolation prize, since I got some heavy work to do this week and I might not be able to update as I planned to, not yet, anyway.

“Did you grab’em? The napkins?” 

 

    “Yes, I grabbed the napkins.” she couldn’t stress it strongly enough, not in a way it wasn’t seen as rude.

 

    Mallory huffed loudly the second her mother turned, far too preoccupied stuffing raisin muffins into a wicker basket, ever the faithful and devoted christian. She could see her hair, honey-brown and neat as it could be with not a single strand out of place, not one unruly thread; in comparison to hers, which more often looked like she had gotten thrown into the rose bushes her grandmother nurtured in their backyard. That day, however, she had caved into her mother’s demands and allowed her to do her hair, with was now fixed in a pristine half updo that required a dozen too many pins to hold in place for her liking. 

 

    “I want you to be careful with those,” the older woman warned her waving one slender finger, her voice was laced with the singsong traces of her undoubtable Texan accent. Dallas’ finest, she once had been “that’s some fine silk you’re carrying, they cost me more than your sweet sixteen’s dress.” 

 

    She frowned, never quite understanding her mother’s figures of speech or the pattern of her so-called sense of humor, Mallory was often out of the loop when it came to her. Evelyn, her mother, in all of her tweed-wearing, cross-carrying, gospel-singing glory. “M’kay” she limited herself to mumble. 

 

    It was June 13th, a feast day of Saint Anthony of Padua, patron saint of lost people, lost things, and— in a stark contrast amongst them—of women looking for husbands. Evelyn had devoted herself to the date reaching the point of turning it a yearly celebration, after having found some very dear object she once thought lost. The size of her faith could only be measured by the ruler of her numerous donations and gifts for local churches; unhappy with only giving to the one she and the rest of the family attended weekly.

 

   “Mom…” Mallory whispered, “...wouldn’t it be better if I go with you, instead?”

 

   Evelyn scoffed, whisking something aggressively so in a pot. Sauce? Frosting? Usually, Mallory was terrified of going so far from home with no one to keep her company, having her parents planted the seed of fearfulness inside her mind. Mallory once feared a villain would come and steal her in the dead of night, she often kept her friends at twice of arm-length and chose to stay in wrapped in tight over going out.

 

    Much like her sister, but Felicity was not the starring role of this story. Not this chapter, at least.

 

    “Mallory, I asked one thing of you, and you can’t deliver!” she chastised, “Better let me know before you even leave the house if you want me to send your sister, in your place. Wouldn’t want to have you crying and shaking like the last time.”

 

    “I know—” the girl recalled, shameful, interrupted.

 

    Her mother wasn’t done recalling it, however, “Your father had to drive for nearly an hour!” 

 

   “I know.” secretly, she wished for her mother to shut her mouth.

 

    Mallory had learned throughout the years it was the easiest to comply and follow her mother’s instructions, which were God’s instructions, alike. So many times she had thought about being disobedient, like Felicity, who had never been held accountable for her actions; but there was an ice-cold grip tugging her down every single time she thought she could possibly go through with it. If she did well, if she kept quiet, then God would be pleased with her and she would go along with her life knowing she was a good person. One of a pure heart, too. 

 

    The moment her mother stopped bickering and resumed her whatever-stirring she was doing, Mallory knew that again she had done well. The girl sighed, eyeing the fucking napkins, better not wrinkle them.

  
  
  
  


    This was not their usual church, these were foreign grounds.

 

    However, as she pulled over and yanked the keys out turning off the engine, Mallory couldn’t help but admire just how imposing and colossal this church in particular was. An odd one for Salem, Massachusetts. Word on the street it was a new one, built over the holy ground as foresight of good fortune and unalloyed faith. It looked old, however, with tar black bricks and shiny iron decorations circling the fences and every single window; beautiful, her mouth fell agape the second she saw it and it even brought her down to surrender before the unequivocal feeling of not being meant to even enter. 

 

    It only got stronger two steps past the threshold, when Mallory slipped through the half-opened mahogany door and took in her surroundings. The decoration as exquisite, and the sound of her footsteps echoing down the empty aisle only brought a couple too many strange feelings to resurface; it wasn’t familiarity what she felt, but some strange sense of belonging and fear that seeped through. 

 

   Mallory uttered a strangled scream when she felt someone tapping her shoulder, the small-framed girl turned around in a halt to find a shorter, paler woman with beady blue eyes and dark hair that peeked from under her religious attire: a nun. She didn’t seem surprised to see her, Mallory, however, felt even more scared when she saw her. Even if she played it nonchalant for the most part, as nonchalant as she could be after screaming like that. 

 

    “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you coming.” 

 

    The woman chuckled, disregarding her reaction with a little wave of her hand “It’s okay, child, I’m often told I’m pretty quiet.” as to empathize it, the woman leaned forward slightly, “I’m Sister Miriam.”

 

    She bowed a little and smiled in acknowledgment “Mallory.” Miriam smiled back “My mother, Evelyn, she sent me here to give you these graces; they’re for Saint Anthony’s.” she explained.

 

    Sister Miriam looked down at the girl’s baskett, eyes widening and smile brightening at the sight of the fancy napkins and the several pieces of silverware her mother had oh-so-selflessly purchased for the church; it was a pretty generous gift, indeed, even still it looked poor and rickety in comparison to their decorations.

 

    “Oh, my, oh my” she chanted, holding onto the basket dearly, when she looked up to meet gaze it was impossible not to feel somewhat irked by how sinister the expression looked across the seemingly sweet woman’s face “The Lord sure thanks her for such nice gesture.”

 

    Even still, there was something about Mallory. Her bashfulness, her innocence, often drew her towards unexplored tides, it made her prone to believe in the kindness of someone else’s gestures and expressions without questioning their legitimacy. A smile is a smile, it took little to have her smiling back.

 

    “I will make sure of telling her,” the girl asserted, her hands timidly laced together in front of her narrow torso, “she was pretty excited about it, she feared I was going to wrinkle them or something…”

 

    And so she reached for the napkins and stroked the corner of one of them between her fingers, feeling the friction of the silk on her skin and thanking the almighty for keeping them neat and fresh until they were no longer her responsibility. Miriam, herself, took the time to examine the girl.

 

    Mallory was short, that was the first thing you noticed about her. Five foot two, with fair rosy skin that glew downy and unaffected sporting just the faintest bit of tan, as she had just bathed under the sun until her cheeks, arms, and legs gained some color. Her face was doll-like, kind of like a sixties’ queen with big expressive eyes drenched in hazel with long dark lashes and thin rosy lips forever fixed in a slight pout. Her hair was honeyed, sun-kissed nearing the tips, and her small hands had even smaller fingers with nails painted in the same pastel pink of her tweed dress. 

 

   “So cute, with your little baskett” she mused, mostly to herself, causing her to look right at her “like the little girl from the fairytale sending food and goodies to her grandmother, in the woods.” 

 

    Mallory smiled, tilting her head as a sign of sudden recognition “Like Red Riding Hood!”

 

  Sister Miriam replied with a laugh “Like Red Riding Hood, indeed.” she chuckled again, looking over the girl’s outfit as though something was missing, “All you need is the hood!”

 

    “I’m afraid I don’t have it” she pouted, playing along. It was odd because Red Riding Hood had always been her favorite fairytale, one her grandmother told her, too. The sudden reminiscence brought her back to a place she missed dearly, but it was actually hard to dwell in the memory when everything in that church looked so fucking out of place. 

 

    “That’s a shame!” Miriam agreed, “You’d look more than adorable in a red cloak, I’m sure.”

 

    Once again she laughed, and with that laugh came the examination of the rows of candles to the left of the church, lining down the stained glass windows that went up for what seemed to be miles. The figures, angels, were so beauteous and timeless before her. The candles were of the same waxy white, placed in silver candlesticks with thick spours of molten wax hardened by time. 

 

    Mallory had to give a double take and shook her head in front of a still grinning Sister Miriam. She could have sworn some of the candles she had seen were actually black, must have been her eyesight playing tricks on her. Wouldn’t be the first time. She had already embarrassed herself enough seeing black cats that weren’t really there.

    “Well, Sister Miriam…” she commenced with an apologetic smile, “I must get going now.”

 

    No protest came, in spite of having expected it. And it was strange enough to do so. But a voice coming from behind her, almost as incorporeal as this dark energy that oozed from the ceiling and the candles, even from the velveteen texture of the pews, made itself present.

 

    “Oh, but I’ve hardly gotten to admire these precious gifts you’ve brought to us… so kindly.”

 

    Upon turning around she saw a man, the sight being enough to falter her. He was tall, framed elegantly in his clerical clothing in a way she hardly saw any priests looking before. In fact, she was pretty sure she had never seen one like him before. All the priests she had come to meet before were either fat, old, or bald. Sometimes all of them at once, and all of them had wooden-y teeth, to top it. The creature in front of her, however, her teeth so white they sparkled underneath the gentle five o’clock sunlight that filtered through the stained glass, having stood right under a particular path of red. Like a vision soaked in blood.

   “I’m Father Langdon” he introduced himself taking a few steps in her direction. 

 

   Becoming smaller was the only option in sight, even still, the least probable one. Mallory coiled on her spot, wrapping her arms around her, feeling helpless at the lack of choice but to look right back, he towered over her noticeably, and his skin was impossibly warm and smooth when she found herself shaking his hand as any other normal human being would do upon meeting someone new. 

 

   The cold feeling of the metal of his numerous rings grazed her skin when they did. Those were certainly a little too expensive for someone who was ought to resign from his every whimsical possession and vanity once he vowed himself to the Lord’s word and making. Mallory bit her inner cheek.

 

   “Mallory, Howell.” it was awful to note just how quiet she was, “Nice to meet you.”

 

    Father Langdon smiled, but it was the kind of sweet sickening smile that concealed something menacing right under it, the air that filled her lungs was heavier, warmer than ever. All jokes and tension aside, she wanted to go. She wanted to go, immediately.

 

    “She’s Mrs. Evelyn Howell’s daughter” Sister Miriam acknowledged gleefully.

 

    In spite of his welcoming exterior, Father Langdon’s expression was uninterested, bored even, holding up to his amicable act not so wholeheartedly. Mallory wished for the church to be crowded, for some service to be taking place, but it was an odd day to hold a mass and Saint Anthony’s feast day wasn’t one to be celebrated, to begin with. She was alone with these two people until they let go of her.

 

    “Well, I must go now, Father Langdon. Gotta place these somewhere before we find them a spot.”

 

    Mallory felt a chill traveling up her spine and a hint of terror coursing through her bloodstream. They exchanged curtsy nods and Sister Miriam gave her one last smile before parting, leaving her in the company of the blond man, whose long strands of hair fell over his shoulders and framed his face gently now he was peering down at her. Two became one, and one would keep her there, then.

 

    Again, she did her best to shake herself out of that somewhat awkward situation.

 

    “I was also going, too…” she gave him a purse-lipped smile, the man before her held onto his own hands placed against his back. He was silent and still, statue-like, probably waiting for her to formulate further into her lackluster excuse “...My mother is hosting a dinner party in the name of Saint Anthony of Padua tonight, and I’m already running late.”

 

    She shrugged her shoulders, innocently, hoping that would be enough for him.

 

    Father Langdon was deep in thinking, there was something exquisite about the way his features relaxed and contracted with every word he said, with every sentence he uttered. They told a story of their own, as melody came with music, always in the background and unable to speak for itself, but giving it meaning, regardless, giving it emotion in a way a voice never would, by its own accord. 

 

    “Saint Anthony of Padua—has your mother recovered something or someone she thought missing?”

 

    Mallory shook her head yes, “She won’t tell me, though, I figured it was none of my business.”

 

    “Yet she is grateful enough to celebrate it, give her offerings as eagerly as her ancestors did back when their beliefs were nothing but delights of the pagans.” just then she realized something odd, when he spoke it didn’t feel like his voice came out of his mouth in spite of moving his lips. His voice didn’t come from a single direction, it rather felt like a feathery sound bouncing from wall to wall, wreathing her, lulling her.

 

    “You could put it that way,” she nearly dared, it was impossible to hide it didn’t please her much to feel her mother was made fun of, his voice was soft but it didn’t equal it was sweet “I celebrate it too, that’s kind of why I’m in a rush right now,” Mallory turned light on her heels, fixated on leaving that place at once “so if you excuse me—”

 

    “Have you lost something too, Mallory? Someone?” he shot back, dismissing her comment entirely.

 

    The young woman blinked in surprise, unsure of what it was ought to mean.

 

    “Excuse me?”

 

    “For someone to celebrate a date with this ardent fervor I can only imagine this saint of yours is one you hold onto dearly, one you owe to, greatly.” he explained, rest assured he was eloquent enough to make her ask herself a couple of questions, “Otherwise, it would be such a shame to have you venerating a human figure that has done nothing for you.” 

 

    “Faith and religious beliefs are some of the things that pass from man to man, even more when blood relations are part of the mix,” Mallory ran her hands flat over the front of her dress, embarrassed of how they suddenly trembled, her skin was growing icy to the touch. She knew the feeling all too well. “My mother passed her own down to me, just like her mother did before her.”

 

    He smiled, eyeing her up and down just to let his view linger at the floor. 

 

    “Warms up your heart to hear it, nothing like unquestionable faith to regain hope in humanity.”

 

    Mallory didn’t buy any of it. 

 

    It beat her, truly, Mallory was unsure as to why exactly the man before her refused to let her go in peace. What was even worse, she could feel as though her feet grew heavy anchoring her to the ground, it was even harder to pretend she found the tall walls and the multiple figures with angelic faces (priest included) as something else than intimidating, bording what was overwhelming. But in her utmost sickening fascination, Mallory was slowly started to forget there was a woman prancing to and fro somewhere a few miles away placing and replacing trails and flower pots at the table, searching for perfection even in something so stupid.

 

    She opened her mouth, unsure of what to say but wishing to fill the silence with something.

 

    Father Langdon beat her at it, too “You don’t have to yield under any beliefs you don’t share.”

 

    The sincerity of his words took her aback, perhaps his expression was not the nicest ones, but it sure was puzzling. He reminded her, now, of incense. And it was another stupid comparison, of course, but if there was something she enjoyed from church services was the thick, rich, and somewhat enticing scent of burning incense filling up her lungs and almost dizzying her. 

 

    “You’re surely not the person I expected to hear that from.”

 

    She noted, her arms relaxing and flopping gently to her sides, it was then when she first noticed it. His undying and undivided attention placed on her like a spell, a bound, if you will. Father Langdon took her words in and scanned her as carefully and imperceptibly as he could; not like she wasn’t able to pick it up, anyway. How his eyes hovered over her small building, taking note of her bright eyes, the narrow curves of her waist under that girlish dress. She was an image of innocence, of purity of soul.

 

    She was an image worth jarring. 

 

    “Why is that, Mallory?”

 

    Mallory blinked, trying to find a good answer, “B-Because you’re a priest, you’re supposed to encourage other people’s religious beliefs, not undermine them over the use of logic, or self-preservation.”

 

    “I believe wisdom is one of the gifts bestowed upon you by your God, wouldn’t logic qualify as something that relies upon that wisdom?” Father Langdon clicked his tongue twice, the expression on his face and the way he circled around her nearly felt as though he was fighting the urge of nagging himself, like he had stepped over the boundary “Of course, to encourage certain behavior, to even suggest you should not obey is what does not quite qualify as the word and deed of the Lord. Not much of a priest behavior, is it?”

 

    “At this point I don’t really believe you’re the usual priest, to be honest.”

 

     He smiled in response, the red above him more vibrant than ever “Good.”

  
  
  
  


    A few minutes later, Father Langdon had offered her something to drink. To thank her for her gifts, minding so little Mallory’s protests and how they hadn’t been her gifts, for a start. Initially, he was meant to indulge her in the solace and relief coming from confessing her sins, addressing her wrongdoings and wiping her slate clean for her to start over. She explained to him how she had never confessed anything before, fearing the confinement of those booths and dreading the darkness of them more than anything in the world. And so he offered his office, instead, while she tried to sit still on one of his chairs.

 

    In what cohesive state of reality would a church goer sit in a priest’s office, far too small to occupy the whole seat he offered her, watching him carefully as he poured them both wine? She bit her lower bit, a habit she had never gotten rid of and often came to surface when she was nervous, noticing it was not the usual bottle of wine; there was nothing humble or demure about corking a bottle of pinot noir open for the kicks. 

 

    He approached her, chalice in hand, securely placed between his fingers, waiting for her to stretch out her hand and take it, which she did gladly noticing how thirsty she was, something that caused him to smile. Mallory also came to notice just how much it pleased him whenever she agreed with him, whenever she followed his commands even if these were as insignificant as stepping in, the following suit, taking a seat. 

  
  


    “Thank you,” Mallory said looking up at him from the spot of the chair she took over.

 

    Father Langdon gave her the hint of a smile, in reply. His eyes now drifted to the fine rosary of pearls that hung around her neck, one that her mother had given her as a present on her birthday in September last year. Mallory fought the impulse of reaching out to grasp it tightly. For a second the pearls burned against her skin, she shook off the thought. 

 

    “You were telling me about your mother…” he continued, languidly making his way to his own seat by the other side of the fire, right across from her, where they both shared the warmth of the burning wood. 

 

    Mallory was caught mid-gulp, embarrassingly pressing her hand to her lips in the fear of letting it spill and roll down her chin as though she was a wildling tasting wine for the first time; the taste of it eased the thirst a bit, but didn’t quite brought it to die completely, all the same. One gulp demanded another immediately after, and the rush of heat to her cheeks made it obvious.

 

    “Yes, I…” the girl struggled a bit to weave out her thoughts from their messy threads “...I simply find myself in positions that are less than ideal for me, I mean, she seems to love making me uncomfortable. Even coming here was one of her demands, she guilt-tripped me until I agreed to come. I think what I really wanted was to avoid an altercation.” 

 

     He sat there, sprawled across his seat in a posture that could only be described as feline. Nonchalant, but still  menacing, like he could pounce whoever at the cue of it, Mallory could never stare at him for too long, the more she shared spaces with him the harder it was to ignore how she was starting to feel; how an insistent warm slickness would rush out of her whenever he looked her in a certain way, whenever she brought herself to imagine anything; it was so hard to keep her thoughts friendly in front of someone like him.

    Him, a man of the cloth, looking so out of place yet so proper of it. 

 

    “Would you have chosen to stay, now that you’ve come to be here? Now that you’ve come to meet me, Mallory?” 

 

    Perplex and flustered, Mallory struggled to answer truthfully. Something told her he would know if she lied, but it was a hard soul to save the one of hers if she relied solely on half-truths and feelings she hadn’t brought herself to confront yet. Everything she said was flimsy enough to question it. 

 

    Mallory had her lips parted, one of her fingers brushing the rim of her chalice and her eyes glued to the remnants of the dark beverage as though she would find her answers there, her salvation. All, to no avail. 

 

  “I don’t know,” she confessed. A part of her wanted to say she would have been safe at home, even if she had to deal with her sister’s teasing and her mother with her looks of disapproval melting through her from across the dining table. The other wanted to confess it got tough to breathe around him. 

 

    “I’m starting to think you would run right out the door if I gave you the chance to.”

 

   She kept quiet, trying to avoid his gaze as much as possible. Little did she know that from his very seat, Father Langdon was enjoying what had to be the finest show he had been honored with witnessing in a very, very long time. His little angel, coiled up in her seat, letting her gaze drift from one spot to the other stopping on his eyes every so often until the ice in them was far too much for her to cope and tore it right off. 

 

    If this was the case he didn’t want it to be over, but it was almost becoming an issue to have her close enough to reach out and not being able to, not until he had managed to break down those walls she protected so fiercely. He hid behind his wine, as did she, pretending for the millionth time not to be burning on the inside, pretending he was drilling a hole through her with every glance he gave her. 

 

_ Mallory, control yourself,  _ she said to her heart of hearts, completely horrified. 

 

    “I wouldn’t…” she told him, causing him to put his chalice down, now held on his hand so leisurely she feared it would spill over, with his arm stretched out and his long legs stretched. Her eyes darted towards his shiny and expensive looking shoes, all the way up to his thighs now pressing against the fabric of his slacks so tightly she feared he was going to rip them. He was a sight for sore eyes, but surely one she shouldn’t be seeing with such hunger, perhaps it was not even noticeable. “I really wouldn’t…” 

 

    Except, of course, it was. 

 

    “Of course you wouldn’t, Mallory…” he then purred, catching her off guard.

 

    “Ever the obedient little lamb, far too good and righteous to go against someone else’s orders…” he trailed off, the gleam in his eyes was wicked, cruel, the contrast between the darkness of his words, his words, and the divinity on the flesh that his attire was meant to represent “...I bet, actually, that there is a part of you that craves being subjugated more than anything else in this world. Is the only explanation I can find to this push-over behavior of yours.”

 

    Her breath got caught up in her throat, strangled, ugly, coming out as nothing but a frail sound almost as though she had been held tightly by the throat. She wanted to be offended and put up a fight, to defend her character the best that she could, but this self-righteous little thing only found herself stirring uncomfortably as her pussy throbbed around nothing, growing warm and slick at the desire of having something filling her to the hilt, get rid of that fucking crave she had been battling from the moment she found herself alone with him. 

 

    “I like it when you act like it doesn’t affect you,” he confessed, a moment of weakness through all of these imposing layers, Father Langdon sunk his back onto the back of his seat, “I almost make you look like a little less of a whiny bitch.”

 

    He chuckled grimly, Mallory took the last bit of her wine and placed the chalice down beside her loudly, it would have been a lie to say the comment didn’t vex her. If anything, she felt the impulse of getting up and leaving, slamming the door behind her and telling her mother in vivid detail about the foul-mouthed, perverted priest who snuck her into his office and gave her wine as an act of thankfulness. 

 

    “Fuck you.” she spat.

 

    Langdon simply raised his eyebrows, having liked the reaction a little too much. His expression changed in a matter of seconds, though, the moment he finished his own wine and let the chalice fall gently onto the table beside him. Mallory was unsure if the warmth came from the fire, or if it was indignation keeping her skin afire. 

 

    “Come here” he ordered her out of the blue, patting his thigh, inviting her.

 

    Mallory scoffed in reply, getting up her seat and storming past him with no intentions of looking back or so looking back at him. Rushing past the altar and making her way between the pews was unnerving enough, it took no time before she noticed something was really wrong. 

 

    The aisle she had initially sauntered by in seconds felt to go on forever, the red velveteen cushions from the pews looked shadowy down dusk was making an act of appearance, now the place was drenched in the kaleidoscopic hues of the stained glasses all around her. But even those felt different, terror pierced her down to the core when the angels were replaced by birds: crows, specifically. Mallory withdrew herself from the impending nothingness that had surged from a place of faith and penitence, equally enthralled and mortified upon making the discovery of the rows and rows of dripping black candles that began to light seemingly by magic the second Langdon made his way down the aisle, hands clasped behind him, he had taken all the light of that place with him, and the sky outside hinted to be getting more morbid with each passing second. 

 

    Someway somehow she felt trapped in a nightmare. 

 

    “From the moment I saw you I noticed something, and you do nothing but reassuring it…”

 

    Mallory froze at her spot, partly wanting to hear what it was. Langdon circled her, like a predator would its prey, every time getting closer, and closer until his chest was brushing her own. She was expecting him to force her to look up at her, make some demeaning comment or resume his little monologue, followed by the reveal of his devilish plans, those she would listen carefully while staring at the blues of his, watch how his brows knitted and his plush lips curled with every word.

    Instead, he took her chin between his fingers, gently, carefully, as though he thought she would break to the contact. Locking eyes was easier from there if the proximity was not enough of a source of heat. It was intoxicating, all the same, trying to figure out what the scent of his was aside from frankincense and myrrh, just like she had suspected. There was a faint hint of iron, too, behind the drowsy notes of pinot noir still lingering on his tongue. God, how she wished to feel it wet and unbecoming, sliding through her parted lips and taking over her own until she could no longer recall what she was called or how to get home from there.

 

    “What is it?” she asked him, the crass whips of fear were still there, but dimming down at her own lust’s mercy, taking more and more space in her mind. Never acknowledging the slow swirling of the crows from the stain glasses. 

 

    “...You’re one of the sweet ones, the pures. It sickens me…” he admitted lightheartedly, fashioning a look of disgust on his face, his touch was still so tender, in stark contrast with is harsh words, “But for some reason, I cannot bring myself not to like it.” 

 

    She shivered before him, mentally wishing she could burst through the door, “I don’t wanna be here,” Mallory’s voice was laced and taken aback by a million silent pleas, all condensed in those five words, praying she could be set free, praying the hunger would even fade and release her from its ruthless grip “Please let me go.”

 

    “And miss out on this? On you?” he questioned, staring her down hungrily. His tongue darted out, wetting his lower lip making the rosy tint of it glisten under the candle lights. Langdon shook his head solemnly, Mallory could feel her legs threatening with giving in “No, angel. It’s been a while since my last meal, I don’t think I can bear being this hungry any longer.”

 

    With no further warning, Langdon ducked down, momentarily making her believe he was going to kiss her, catching her by surprise with lips parted in anticipation, chest coming up and down violently. But instead he came to brush a strand of hair aside, unraveling on the scent of her blood pushing against the small spot of her pulse on her neck, nuzzling his nose lightly against her, sending shivers down her spine and prompting her to hold onto the front of his cloth in a desperate attempt to stay on her feet and not collapsing. His breath tickled and burned her skin at the same time, the plush outline of his lips grazing the spot between her ear and her jaw was all she could guess, growing lightheaded.

 

    “You’re sure good enough to eat,” he declared his hands finally meeting the sides of her arms and sliding sensually slow down her forearms until he reached her hands, “but I think I rather bend and break you a bit, first.” 

 

    The way his sense of darkness and dominance, those that clung onto him so fiercely, pulled her in and sank her down. Shame was striking her in cold long whips, reminding herself just how many times, for such a long time now, she had been drawn towards these figures; those that represented authority, power, fear, how their darkness and somewhat sickening behavior was something she spoke against in public and fucked herself to, in private. Fuck, Mallory lost count of how many times she found herself in the dead of night, knuckles deep into her soaked pussy, reading tale after tale, marveling on how worrisome and deranged they were, feeling each gruesome act on her own skin. Every lick, every thrust, just dreaming of being used that way. Fucked that way. Owned that way.

 

    “Now, doll…” he mustered up some self-control and broke apart from the girl before she turned to a puddle before him before he could have his fun, “...Let’s try again.”

 

    She waited for him to say the word, but just like he had been there, Langdon disappeared, only to reappear by the altar,  where even more darkened candles lit one by one, slowly, shaking before him the same way she had, moments before. The distance was a blur now, feeling him closer than ever, merely a few steps away from their encounter. The altar itself had changed, there was dark-velveteen bedding where his seat, his throne would have been. Despite the dimmed illumination and her blasphemous circumstances, it was still a place of adoration. 

 

    “Come here,” he asked of her for a second time.

 

    And Mallory knew it was a place of adoration still, the short shallow breaths and her growing need being enough of a proof of out. Knowing for sure she would have crawled her way there, had he asked so. 

 

    The look of satisfaction on his face, his hunger, self-sufficiency, and pride all at once when he saw her, it was enough of a motivation. Mallory found, having noted at last the constriction in his trousers caused by quite an obvious erection, he was enjoying their little game a little too much, he was enjoying the sacrifice his most beloved believers had given him in the shape of a precious little angel. 

 

    The smoke that swirled around them was thickening, the closer they were they worse it got.

 

    He wasted no time in holding her face in his hands and hardly even letting her process what was happening before his lips crashed down on hers in a ravenous kiss. They tasted better than she had imagined, it was not soft by any means, their teeth were clashing together and his tongue found its way past her barriers, lapping over every little bit of her possessively, claiming her as his without much order nor ceremony. Mallory gasped against his mouth and his hand traveled up the back of her neck tugging hard at the hair on the nape of her scalp, causing her to gasp and part her lips further and assault her mouth more eagerly. 

 

    “Father Langdon…” she gasped, nothing but a willing weak sound.

 

    He hushed her, pressing their foreheads together and not breaking eye contact, even when he guided her backward until her back clashed painfully against the edge the altar, “No, bird…” his lips hovered over hers, his hands running flat up her thighs before bringing her to part them and let him explore further, whimpering and holding onto his shoulders when his ringed fingers came in contact with the soaked fabric of her panties and opened pointer and middle finger, tracing up and down the sides of her outer labia, making her squirm under the friction, arousing her more, if that was even possible. Mallory felt her pussy contract again, spurring another load of wetness out until her underwear glued to her center, and coated her inner thighs in need. 

 

    “I would usually go with that title so willingly. It’s made things so much easier, it’s made my vision so much clearer, but I will give you the choice to call me else. Call me the Devil, if you want to, it’s the closest you’ll ever be—” he assured her, rubbing her swollen clit over the fabric causing her to cry out.

 

    “Fuck!” she squealed, digging her nails on his shoulders. 

    “You may call me God, if so you please” he assured her, his words laced in disdain and pleasure, Mallory was contorting by now, and so he brought her close for her to grind herself against him, pulling her slightly from the ground and supporting her against the altar with her dress ridden up so she could brush herself on his bulge, hissing slightly at the contact, “But Michael should do just fine.”

 

    Michael, she wanted to savor that name on her tongue forever.

 

    “On your knees,” he commanded, letting go of her roughly making her fall on the ground either way.

 

    Mallory groaned as her knees hit the tiles, feeling the pain of the cold texture pressing into her skin, her hands barely catching her in order for her to regain balance. Michael hovered above her, leisurely undoing his pants until he brought them down to the middle of his thighs. The girl grew hungry at the sight of his clock pressed against the fabric restraints, darkened at the spot his swollen head should be, showing just how soaked on precum he was, causing her mouth to water. 

 

    She craned her neck and looking up at his expecting eyes with her doe-like, innocent ones. Seeing him stir eagerly from where he was when she holding onto his thighs and wetted her lower lip, clearly waiting for him to free himself in order to please him. To follow his every whim. To be used and enjoy it.

 

    “Pull daddy’s cock out, princess, and do it fast” he breathed, to which she complied.

 

    His boxers came down to meet the edge of his pants and all of his length sprung out,  throbbing and glistening while it lightly brushed his lower stomach. She shivered, feeling hungrier that before, her little cunt craving whatever attention he had to give her. He ordered her to open her mouth, as well, which she did in half a heartbeat earning a bitter laugh from him “You’re a hungry bitch now, aren’t you? Wanting to have me choke you with my cock so bad, dripping from your pussy onto the floor. I hope you know you’re still at a place of worship.” 

 

    The rosary beads around her neck were enough of a reminder. Michael reached back to the nape of her neck again and tangled his fingers into her hair, tugging her at it.

 

    “Start worshipping, then.” 

 

    Michael didn’t have to tell her twice, Mallory poked her small bubblegum-pink tongue out and traced him from the base to the swollen head of his penis, sucking lazily on the underside of it earning a grunt for him, feeling his grip on her hair tightening. She took her time, not intending to tease but to give him as much attention as possible, and licked up and down his shaft several times before heading downwards and cupping his balls as much as she could between her lips, sucking sloppily on them and leaving them glistening with a mix of spit and precum. He praised her, encouraged her, until she wrapped her swollen lips and began bobbing her head, sucking in and flapping her tongue over his dripping slit over and over, taking a couple more inches into her mouth until she started having a hard time with the breathing. One suckle, in particular, caused her gag reflex to kick in and her throat clenched around him with a wet, vulgar sound.

 

    He pulled his cock out of her mouth completely and brought her to look up at him.

 

    “Are you liking choking on my cock? Huh?” he asked her.

 

    Mallory nodded rapidly, her watery eyes prickling and smearing her makeup “Yes” she croaked, barely able to speak in that state.

 

    “Are you gonna take it all in your pretty little mouth? Huh? Right here at the altar for your God to see who you worship now?” it took her a second to speak, both by the weight of his blasphemy and the little air in her lungs “I asked you something.” he stressed, roughly, yanking at her hair, the tears now spilling free and staining her cheeks with mascara.

 

    “Yes!” she cried, sinking her nails into his thighs.

 

    “That’s a good girl” he cooed, and slammed back into her mouth in one thrust.

 

    Michael held onto her head with both hands, now, leaving her completely at his mercy while he began to fuck her mouth, the wet sounds of her choking and gagging so delicious and so obscene he felt himself twitching inside of her. It took all her strengths not to reach down and plug two fingers into her pussy, aching for a bit of attention, but she figured this fanfare was not truly about her. 

 

     “This… Is… All… You’re… Good… For…” he hissed, each word for each thrust. 

 

    His cock was brushing that back of her throat, her once neat hair completely made a mess, and her pretty little face ruined with tears rolling freely down her reddened cheeks. Michael pulled out of her and heard her as she struggled to breathe, air burning her empty lungs when she took her first mouthfuls of air. And so he reached down to her hands and brought her up to carry her towards their bedding, disregarding the upper half of his attire with his cock still rock hard, coated on her spit, twitching at the sight of her. Eager, he thought, to rip through her. 

 

    He ordered her to get rid of her clothes, to which she complied, looking particularly cute when she sat supported on her knees on the bed, pulling her tweed dress over her chest. Michael leaned forward, half-unclasping her brassiere before losing his last ounce of patience and ripping it from her, he hovered over her, shaking out of his trousers, bringing her to lie down on the mattress. Her sore back welcomed the closeness and the soft surface equally. Michael tugged at the edge of her panties, sliding the material down her thighs and ripping it half before tossing it to the side; either ruined or torn, like the rest of her clothes.

 

    “Tell me who your God is…” he whispered against her neck, sucking roughly and bringing dark spots to surface, his large hands easily covering her small rounded mounds, massaging them, playing with her tiny rose buds until she cried out his name.

 

    “Michael,” she whined, shutting her eyes tight, her chest coming up at down with her shallow breathing “You. It’s you.”

 

    The pearls from her rosary beads were still adorning her neck, burning between the two of them when he pulled it over her head and got her out of it, making it hover over her parted lips, her hazel eyes fluttering open to look at him with same amounts of fear and devotion, and a crazed need nearly caused him to reach into her small ribcage and found her still-beating heart from her chest. See how it pounded unbridled for him.

 

    “This means nothing anymore…” he whispered, motioning her beloved necklace, “He means nothing anymore.”

 

    Michael traced it down her neck, over her breasts, down the middle of her torso. All the way down to her clit, where the smooth cold surface of the beads made her jump, he opened her thighs roughly and folded one of her legs to hook his arm around, using it as support when he started grinding the rosary between her folds, getting it slick and wet with her, with the want he made her feel, with her need to be fucked, hard.

 

     “Say it. Say it or I won’t fuck you,” he ordered, adding pressure to her slender throat with one of his hands, pumping himself, aligning his cock with her entrance. Brushing her slit up and down, focusing on rubbing himself against her clit, mixing their fluids and coating her small pearl with precum. 

 

    “He means nothing anymore, he’s nothing anymore…” she sobbed, grinding harder onto him.

 

    He nodded in approval, his darkened gaze becoming all she could possibly see.

 

    “Who’s your God now?”

 

    She sighed again and moaned loudly when he pressed the head of his cock against her and got half in an inch of him inside her “Fuck, you are. You are, Michael.” she cried, bringing herself to beg one more time “Please, please fuck me.”

 

    Mallory cried at the feeling of her walls being stretched by the intrusion of his cock, ruthlessly pounding into her at a devilish speed from the very first thrust. He hissed and groaned, telling her how tight she was, how wet she was, how perfect she was. Like the girl in the red hood, unafraid of the wolf’s first bite, Mallory took him with the same greed and desire. Seeking out for that fullness, that sting, that pain, lowering herself onto his length in perfect synchrony with him; the wet, ruined rosary necklace tossed at the side of her head. Not spoiled and tarnished, as was her soul.

 

    Michael flipped her over, hardly even letting her react to the violent rhythm he adopted as he fucked her from behind, her ass up in the air and her chest pressed onto the mattress while her small fists held onto the black covers. He made her beg, he made her work for her orgasm as he spanked her roughly, printing the outline of his hand on her porcelain skin. She came around him, turned into a shaky mess, coating her thighs down with her cum so as all of his crotch and part of his thighs.

 

    The fingers dug into her soft flesh grew claws, tar-black, and razor sharp when they dug lightly into her, causing her to cry out and shake violently the moment tiny beads of blood began to pour out of her assaulted flesh. Mallory held onto the ornament at the end of their dark bedding, soon finding out the intricate design was, in fact, an obsidian cross wrapped in iron thorns, she could see the reflection of the demon pounding into her, grunting as he announced his release.

 

    His eyes were entirely dark, his hands and forearms had grown dark veins. Mallory fell herself falling over the edge a second time, harder than the previous one. Speaking in tongues and full on wrapping her arms around the cross when his hot threads of cum shot inside her coating her walls, dripping out of her while he continued to fuck her, letting go of her and pulling out. 

 

    Mallory was far too exhausted to process much before drifting to sleep. Far too tired to notice her delicate hands were covered in dark veins too, far too tired to notice how Michael came down to cup her in his arms, holding her close looking down at her in nothing short of adoration, while the black candles around them, and all of their dancing crows in stained glass, witnessed their encounter. Witnessed their peace.

 

    He had have a reason to ask her if she had ever lost something, someone. If she would have run or changed her course if given the chance. Michael could sense the power returning to her body, its righteous place, hoping the same would happen to her memories. 

 

    Perhaps she couldn’t recall it. Perhaps to her, she really hadn’t. But he had lost something: his hope. As he had lost someone: her. And, to top it all and make the date of their reencounter more perfect, the saint and patron of women wishing to be wedded, brought his own bride back. 

 

    Michael could hardly wait for her to finally drift out of her slumber. 

  
  


**Fin.**


End file.
